Let Me Know, Kay?

I have 45,304 things to say about Texas, but I also have class. Soon. More later.

But for know, let me say: If I smell like piss let me know, kay?

I walked into work yesterday, tired and homesick, ready to watch "Diego" and eat hot dogs, when Holly say, "Oh, by the way, I bought all these cute underwear for Caroline, so we should start potty training her." And promptly dumps a huge pile of pink Dora the Explorer underwear onto the living room table.

We? WE?

So, Caroline peed her pants twice in 2 hours with yours truely being on pants-changing duty. This is not going to be easy. She doesn't won't use the toilet and all the pink commercialism themed underwear in the world are to no effect.

Oh, and did I mention that since she missed me, Litte Bit has been extra affectionate? (Read: crawling into my lap in an adorable fashion, then promptly attempting to scale Mount Mia.)

I wash her.
I change her pants.
She is piss free.
Therefore, by the power of logic, I shouldn't have piss on me and/or smell like pee

Plan of attack: cease giving her liquid.